


Nature Documentary

by cognomen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Slash, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames spends a lot of time paying attention to the littlest things, which is how he knows not to betray that he is looking at anything in particular. Like, at this particular moment, Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nature Documentary

The airport is as sterile and gleaming and muted-grey-colored as most of Arthur's dreamscapes, and so he looks a hundred percent in place there, standing amongst all the taxi and limo drivers outside of the security points at the gates of the international terminal. He is not, at least, holding a hastily scribbled paper sign. Eames is almost disappointed, Arthur's handwriting is a fussy, pointy thing. Eames is pretty sure he could duplicate it perfectly by tensing up his entire arm to the shoulder as he wrote.

"We've got an hour to kill before Ariadne's flight comes in." Arthur says by way of greeting. He already has a coffee, but just the one, the un-thoughtful prick. Considering Eames has just flown backwards in time into the middle of a work day, the least he deserved was a proper cup of coffee.

Eames drops his overnight bag on Arthur's feet heavily, but elicits no response that way.

He looks up at the terminal and notes the flight and arrival times from Paris. He decides that Arthur can endure the indignity of Eames sleeping propped against his legs and overnight bag like some sort of over-affectionate hobo, and settles himself down onto the blue-green-red ticked gray airline carpet at the man's feet, before leaning against his knees and tucking his arms over his chest.

Arthur tolerates this with amazing grace, and doesn't even pour scalding hot coffee down the front of Eames' shirt - a step in the right direction as far as Eames is concerned.

"You get to sleep on the job, and yet you still need naps," Arthur says, in an undertone. Eames doesn't bother to open his eyes - in truth he already feels relaxed, with the solid, warm wall of living being at his back.

"That's different and you know it," he says, equally quiet, before he drifts off to a dreamless sleep. It seems to be over in almost an instant, then Ariadne is waking him by dropping _her_ luggage on _his_ feet and legs.

"Up, lazybones!" she demands with a smile, before she gives him a hug that's as dripping with enthusiasm as he'd expect from any small canine. She gives a similar hug to Arthur as Eames gathers up his things, and the expression on Arthur's face is one he can identify with - neither of them really know what to do with the genuine affection she shows, but neither is willing to rebuff it.

There's something a bit like coming out of the cold when they're all moving together - Arthur knows instinctively how to move to never be in the way, and Ariadne knows how to keep up the beat of conversation, even keeps him and Arthur from antagonizing each other too much, through the taxi-ride. Eames sinks quietly into the back seat, watching Arthur's profile and thinking of how he had handled a similar taxi once, while Ariadne kept it from being uncomfortably silent.

"Here's my hotel," Eames says, as they drive past it.

"Cobb wants us in straight away," Arthur says distractedly - he's fussing with his notebook in the front seat. "No rest for the wicked."

"How terribly cliche." The last thing Eames wants to see at current is the inside of a warehouse, but he supposes he has little option in the matter. He expresses his opinion of the whole thing with a dramatic yawn, stretching the whole thing out pointedly until Arthur's eyes flick up to meet his in the rear-view mirror.

The warehouse is the same as any other he's seen. Small windows placed high in the walls, big empty space in the middle. Cluttered at the edges with desks for each of them. Cobb sitting in the middle conversing with Yusuf. Familiar. He drags a chair over with as noisy a scrape as he can manage, and settles into it for the duration, arms crossed over his chest.

If Eames is supposed to be paying attention to the mission basics, won't the others be sorely disappointed. Cobb should know better than to expect his team - freshly flown in from several of the deepest, darkest corners of the world - to really be listening without at least a whole night to recover first.

"It should be simple this time, team. The money's good, and everyone likes something basic from time to time," Cobb says, at the head of the loosely arrayed semi-circle. Eames is pointing his head in Cobb's general direction and looking thoughtful. By now they surely knew better than to expect him to take notes - he could always crib off of Arthur's if he really needed them, but Eames always remembered the basics, the important essence of the whole thing, and worked by ear after that.

Instead, Eames watches the body language. Cobb is slowly regaining his assurance, though he seems like he's been run around a bit. Parenthood, and a slow return to normality. The guilt has stopped shuffling his footsteps, no longer pulls like weights on his shoulders.

Most of all, Cobb no longer seems like he's most shy of himself - he doesn't keep his eyes pointed down like he believes that he'll curse someone just by paying attention to them. Eames likes it - though he still detects a lot of the slow, careful grace of an old man in Cobb. He gestures with open hands, and his expressions tend to be more subtle.

Eames would love to slip into his skin sometime. He's pretty sure that he could manage the new Cobb - the one without the over-the-shoulder glances. The Cobb without that albatross on his neck, monkey on his back - pick whichever metaphor you liked. He loved the thought of trying to capture the sharp, wolfish cunning that shone from the depths of Cobb's eyes.

Eames spends a lot of time paying attention to the littlest things, which is how he knows not to betray that he is looking at anything in particular. Like, at this particular moment, Arthur.

Arthur is all sharp lines, thin and straight and all business - like one of those dogs that suggests violence by its very shape. It's what they're built for, and every line, every point and whipcord muscle in them is streamlined for the purpose. Like a doberman, Arthur does not even have to scowl to be actively threatening, even when he's utterly relaxed. The potential is there, in his every dimension. Discouraging.

It was exactly the picture he wanted to produce. He could sit silent and relaxed next to Cobb, promising without ever speaking a word that the pair of them, though they were technically criminals, had a very professional and strict 'no bullshit' policy. It was a bit of a poker bluff, Eames knew. Out of the pair of them, Eames would least want to face an angry Cobb. Arthur was predictably and efficiently violent, Cobb was the sort who could get creative and vindictive if something triggered his protective instinct.

Eames knew Cobb didn't like that about himself. Cobb let Arthur in, partnered with him, because by the time anything could actually hurt Arthur, the type of ferocious over-reaction Cobb was capable of in defense would be justified. Eames was glad that he was on the man's good side, was one of the ones 'in', like Ariadne and Yusuf and even Saito now. None of them would ever be as 'in' as Arthur, because the pair of them worked like the unified front of a Magician's show.

Eames could never resist trying to throw off their dynamic, pressing each one individually, capturing them apart to see if they still reacted as if the other half was there - always implicit that the other would be there to finish business, good or bad. Eames thinks he can fit right in the middle with a little taunting and nudging, since he was apparently high enough in pack standing now to be trusted with some of the upbringing of the newer members.

Eames had always been squarely in the middle of the hierarchy, never the omega by any stretch - they'd had a whole string of piss-poor, inattentive architects to make up for Cobb's disability. It was as if he deliberately chose poorly after Mal's death, so that the aggression he knew he would unleash on his team would go far enough down the totem pole to keep the essential team members free from in-fighting.

Eames had met Mal once - there was an alpha female if ever there was one, and if little Phillipa grew up to be anything like her mother, Cobb would have his hands more than full when she reached dating age.

Of course if Uncle Arthur was still around by that point, he'd be more than enough to discourage all but the extremely determined.

Speaking - or thinking, rather - of Arthur - it seems Eames has spent a bit too much time among the wolves, and missed a cue. He reviews the last few seconds of conversation mentally before excusing his pause offhandedly.

"Sorry, Arthur... Just thinking how delicious you'd look with a collar on."

And _there's_ an image Eames is going to have to live with now, curse his runaway mouth for not consulting his brain before it evoked such imaginary treasures from time to time.

What an image, too - it was probably just the sort of restraint Arthur would get off on, Cobb holding his leash, pulling down while their eyes met. No words, just the hard, steady pain of the leather on his neck as Arthur braced his shoulders, tested his strength, pushing just hard enough that he could feel it but never quite letting himself win. His restraint was as much a product of the implicit trust, and the symbolism of the act of submission as it was a result of the actual physical bonds.

Arthur would _love_ that Cobb was in control. That he could push and pull and scratch and bite until he could feel the exertion in his muscles for days afterward and never win.

Currently, Arthur is looking at Eames like the Brit is very, very small. There's nothing nasty in the expression, but Eames knows that Arthur is assuming there's not a thought in his pretty blonde head. He'd like to correct that - there are _plenty_ of thoughts - the filthy, restless things all slithering over each other like eager snakes. None are work related, however, and to Arthur that may well be the same thing.

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says slowly. Authoritatively. Alpha-to-beta."It's late and we are all very tired. The rest of us have lives we would like to fit somewhere into our day."

Arthur is practically channeling Cobb in tone, posture, and words, and Eames stops himself from laughing. He schools his expression into appropriate sobriety. Cobb himself looks deeply amused. He sees it too, though he's sitting all the way across the room by Ariadne's desk. It's funny because it's t he last place Arthur wants to be for all his posturing and muzzle-mouthing. Arthur has no desire to really be in charge.

Eames can't blame him. He will comfortably stay the number three dog forever if it's possible. Ariadne, of all of them, seems like the one most likely to angle her way to the top.

"So if you could please focus yourself for five minutes, " Arthur is continuing in Cobb's best 'I'll see you after class, young man' tone. It sends a sudden thrill through Eames. He'd always loved being disciplined in front of the class at school. _Look at me,_ he'd smiled, _pushing all these little boundaries that you don't dare to_ \- and the thought of Arthur having stern words with him was a surprisingly arousing one.

"And give us a list of what your needs are for this mission," Arthur, still talking, still looking right at him without realizing the thrill of lust that predatory focus send straight down Eames' spine. "Then we'll be finished and we can all go home."

"Access." Eames forces himself to say, flippantly, instead of 'more orders, darling' or 'you over there on your desk' or even 'I think I could come right now if you so much as threatened to hit me with a ruler.' "As you well know, a successful forgery is all about the details. I'll need access to my target in his 'natural habitat' so to speak. And an expense fund."

He tacks the last on hopefully, but suspects he won't get one. Arthur was pretty perceptive and had to have noticed by now that all the previous expense funds Eames had been given had been spent on bar tabs, at whatever casino was handiest, or on pay per view movies of the after-2am variety.

"Mr. Eames you have an expense fund," Arthur says, "It's called your bank account."

Eames just shrugs in his best 'can't blame a boy for trying' way.

"I'm sure everyone's tired." Cobb says, a half-smirk on his features that says he knows the conversation isn't over between two of them. He also knows better than to force Yusuf and Ariadne to have to sit around and watch the dominance struggle. "That's it for today."

Everyone knows their cues, and gathers up their things to go. Eames does not, he remains seated languorously in the deck chair the team seems to favor these days - no more waking up with cricked necks from practice sessions, oh no, they're professionals now. Arthur takes the longest, Eames knows he will, both of them delaying until they can confront each other. Even Cobb wanders off with his hands in his pockets and eyes pointed skyward, with his thoughts to himself.

_Sometimes you just have to let the dogs fight it out_, Eames thinks. Eames is pretty sure he knows exactly where he stands, but sometimes one has to stretch the boundaries a little. Otherwise, one never got what one wanted after all.

"Do you need to share a taxi-ride?" Arthur says into the darkened silence, when it's only the two of them and silence stretching between.

He's _implying_ that Eames can't manage his own money, that Eames has gambled himself poor again, that Eames is irresponsible and inferior.

Eames gets up. Arthur doesn't look away from him, just stands by his desk holding the silver briefcase that contains the closest thing the man has to offspring, the suitcase containing the PASIV. He looks so casual that Eames can almost write the taunt off as a genuine tease, the sort that Arthur might use on Yusuf or Ariadne - lack of imagination aside, Arthur was not entirely humorless.

Eames keeps his approach even, careful. He schools his body language into that of a sleepy stupor, rounding his shoulders with his hands deep in his pockets. He doesn't let a hint of threat be read in how he moves.

"That'd be fantastic," Eames says dryly. "We haven't had an earner in a while, have we? And we both know I lose _telephone numbers_ when I gamble."

Arthur stares at him flatly, and Eames wonders how Americans can have slang for everything, but all of it is so damn _literal_. He lets Arthur think his way around to the meanings of his words while he continues advancing, waiting until the very last moment to spring - when he's closed the distance to just a few feet.

He calculates his move to shove Arthur hard back against his own desk - there's no room for it to slide backwards, and the motion surprises Arthur enough to drop his briefcase. Eames pins him back hard against the desk and puts his mouth right on Arthur's pulse point. He can practically _taste_ Arthur's irritated expression, the lack of willingness to play with Eames on the forger's terms today.

"Eames," Arthur begins, threateningly, but doesn't get any further.

"Arthur," Cobb's authoritative tone suddenly cuts them both off, like school children caught behind the bleachers, but not before Eames feels Arthur's cock surge with interest, stiffening along where Eames has his thigh pressed.

"If you're going to keep baiting him, of course he's going to need to work it out like this," Cobb says lowly, suddenly much closer and Eames thinks 'fuck, am _I_ in trouble' right after he thinks 'when did Cobb get back in?' and shoves his hand in his own pocket without releasing Arthur, brushing both their arousals with his knuckles as he palms his totem. He feels for the pattern he's made in the reeding of the chip, and the weight. Both said that Cobb was just a sneaky peeping tom.

Eames refuses to turn around; acting guilty will just get him treated like a naughty kid, and not in the way he wants.

"He does it to get under your skin," Dom says - around Eames, pushing right up against his back though he does it slowly. "And you _let_ him, when everyone knows you don't have to."

Eames can get right behind this idea - or rather, right up in the middle of it, if they're going to just _let_ him like this. He can't seem to get his breath, as if the two bodies surrounding him are pressing together even through the space he occupies, two halves of a whole that he's somehow worked himself into the middle of.

The sensation is _satisfactory_.

"Of course I let him," Arthur says, leaning around Eames' neck, and _god_, Eames can feel them kissing against his cheek, his earlobe, the exhalations of breath pushing against the hairs just behind his ear. He wonders when they learned to be so damnably distracting, his hands making nearly useless fists on the buttons of Arthur's trimly tailored suit jacket.

Buttons are beyond his ability to navigate at the moment, because Eames is so focused on the details of how three bodies fit together, and how much personality is conveyed in so much contact.

Cobb is practically overpowering this close - a steady, hard presence that Eames feels like he can lean all his weight into, when he's done realizing how very tall Dom is. Arthur is reluctantly pliant along his front side, bent and arched but only because he has the weight of both the others pushing on him - and that sort of genuine overpowering seems to be doing a whole lot for his interest.

Eames leans in to take advantage of the access he's been given to Arthur's neck, turning his head and biting just underneath Arthur's jaw, taking care not to mark. He'd rather do that beneath the collar - some place invisible to anyone but Arthur and Cobb - especially with Dom present right at his back to reciprocate if he decided he didn't approve of his point man being marked up. He alternates between taunts of bites - hard, not hard enough - and sucking, again not to leave a bruise, but enough to threaten - right along the big muscle in Arthur's neck. The sternocleidomastoid - hasn't everyone spent time 'being' a doctor? - and he only has time to think a little before Arthur's sharp protest stills him.

"You're going to leave a mark," Arthur says right into his ear. "That's not allowed."

"I'm being _very careful_," Eames purrs back in response, and realizes that he's been so focused that he can only now feel the manicured points of Arthur's thumbnails pressing in hard over his hip bones, threatening his pressure points if he continues on a track that Arthur deems 'not allowed'.

Except that Arthur doesn't seem to know that he _is_ all of Eames' pressure points, pressing on them just by being _Arthur_. Eames is gathering his thoughts - all the blood in his body seems to have migrated decidedly south for the duration, evolution having decided that clear thinking was less important than imminent copulation - but doesn't get much further in the process when he realizes that he's being distracted. That his attention has been focused.

Cobb kicks his supporting leg ankle out another six inches, and Eames has to suddenly shift his balance back, take his thigh out from between Arthur's legs if he wants to keep standing, and at the same moment he realizes that his pants buttons have been artfully dispatched in the middle. It's a co-ordinated, unvocalized effort between Arthur and Cobb that leaves Eames' thoughts trying to go back over the last few moments, like reviewing the things that led you into the middle of whatever situation, but he aborts the en tire process halfway through.

It's not as if it matters _at this exact moment_ weather it's a dream or not. He wouldn't stop it either way. It doesn't matter until after, until there's a possibility of repetition, until - _Arthur has his hands all over him_.

"Darling," he groans, and it's Cobb who chuckles while Arthur sighs but neither lets up what they're doing. Cobb has negotiated some kind of hold on Eames' hands, drawing them up tight behind his back at some point when Eames was distracted by the attentions of long, precise fingers. "You say I never think enough, but at this particular moment I'm finding it a bit of a chore to _stop_."

It's not a plea, he tells himself, it's not.

Then he can't tell himself anything at all. It seems like a whirlwind that divests them of clothing, his ancient t-shirt makes a threatening _scrtch_ at the seams as it's pulled over his head, and he focuses on undoing Arthur's braces - he never wore a belt, which Eames thinks would be entirely beyond his capabilities at the moment anyway. Arthur and Dom work in tandem even in this, and that's something that lets Eames slide right into the middle of it and let go of his thoughts. He can work on instinct, as if it were a natural dream.

"Focus on sensation," Dom's voice is saying - has he been talking the entire time? His tone has a hypnotic quality to it, as his hands wander downward, slick with lubricant. They're all leaning more heavily on Arthur's desk now, Arthur having hitched himself up onto its edge, though now he was still pushed backward in a long sinuous line as Eames leaned over him with his hands flat on Arthur's array of notes.

The dry, flat planes of paper - barely indented with the sharp peaks of Arthur's handwriting - is not the sensation he wants to feel.

"Put your hands on him, Eames." Cobb commands, though it's in that same even tone. This one Eames can feel as much as hear because Cobb is speaking from so low in his chest.

Eames gets one hand on Arthur's cock - the other's still holding him up on the desk - and the heat he finds beneath his fingers seems to spread outward from the palm of his fist up his arm. Arthur's noise would have been inaudible if Eames were any further away, he clamped down on it and turned it into a growl, locked it behind clenched teeth.

"Dom," Eames says - moans, really, when he realizes how much control Arthur is still in. For just a moment he seems to enjoy that same sort of wordless communicative understanding that Cobb has with Arthur, because Cobb lifts his head to look directly at Arthur, as if sensing the same problem.

Cobb's rubbing small, slick circles just behind his balls, and Eames can't believe how unerringly the man knew just what was bound to drive him crazy, to make him relax into the whole situation. Even so, Eames doesn't miss the look that passes between Arthur and Cobb over his shoulder - he sees Arthur's head turn just the smallest amount left and right. He's fine, the look insists, just keep going, he's fine.

Eames thinks how much the selflessness makes him want to do terrible things. Cobb abandons his preparations, after marking the back of Eames' neck with a sharp bite that promises they'll save the current thought for further exploration some other time. They are both here, after all, for probably the same reason.

Arthur needs to be given the opportunity to surrender completely, not because he had the proper restraint to do so, but because he could let go and really be overpowered, really surrender this way. Eames wants to take that self control Arthur has and totally shatter it, push the man past restraint and into debauched begging.

It'll be like Christmas, he thinks, getting hold of Arthur by the wrists before Arthur can protest. Cobb is right there on the same wavelength, because as Eames shifts aside he's there to pin down Arthur's hips, just as the muscles underneath Eames' fingers begin to twist and turn and whipcord into life.

Eames, even though he knows he shouldn't be, is surprised at the strength in Arthur. The man's clothes lengthen him into something almost impossibly thin and severe, but underneath it all he's just as strong and efficient as the taut curve of his backbone implies. For a moment, he and Cobb just have to hang on as Arthur tests his new limits, and between the pair of them he slowly twists and turns and pulls, and then when his skin is starting to dot with sweat, the corner of his mouth turns up in an expression that's half smile and half baring his teeth. It's a tiny little concession to the fact he might be bested, and how much he likes the idea.

They take it slow. Eames works one hand through Arthur's hair to put it into a disarray, and it comes apart slowly, reluctantly. He lets Arthur get hold of his arms instead, lets him scratch long lines along the undersides of his bicep, and watches down the long line of Arthur's body as Cobb re-slicks his hands (had that come out of one of the drawers in Arthur's desk, or someone's pocket, Eames wonders), and pushes his index finger down along the underside of the length of Arthur's cock, tracing a straight line all the way down before he begins to press him open.

There's something deeply intimate about watching Arthur's expression change, watching the stern brows ease upward, the muscles in the side of his jaw tense up as he remembers himself, holds himself back, and Eames gets his hands down in there to help him forget that whole idea. He coaxes, with a decided lack of finesse that he thinks probably doesn't matter - not like just the right amount of pressure or the right tempo does - and he watches attentively to take his cues from Cobb. They're both pushing toward the same thing, the same slow build up that Eames knows is necessary.

Arthur's hips jerk upward suddenly, and abortive motion as the twist of Cobb's mouth, the shifting cord of muscle in his forearms, tells Eames that he's curling his fingers up, scissoring them wide inside of Arthur and pushing against the man's prostate. He can feel the heat pooling along his own shoulders at the sight, shivering upward through his scalp, the roots of his hair, and he leans down the whole length of Arthur's body to get his mouth on him.

He can count the five distinct points of pressure on his neck where Arthur grabs him, almost threatening, though whether the warning is to stop or not to, Eames makes it a point not to care. There's that heavy, pleasurable weight on his tongue; what he can't fit in his mouth is curled in his fist, and where his ring and pinky fingers trail down he can feel Cobb's fingers pushing and working. And he's an absolute fucking _tease_ about it, too, never keeping solid contact with his mouth for more than a few seconds, easing back as he feels Cobb do so.

He's so focused he's not sure when exactly Arthur starts growling beneath him, the sound not nearly so restrained, and god how can he keep it up? Eames would be begging by now, clawing and scratching and _demanding_ some real contact instead of this constant low-level tease. Arthur surges upward at last, his nails scratching a long line down Eames' back from his neck, like cat-scratches Eames thinks at the sharpness of it.

If Cobb were still wearing a tie by this point, Eames thinks that Arthur would be choking him with it as he looks up - sidelong, the angle is hard, it makes his eyes tired before he eases his mouth back off of Arthur's dick, savoring how the pressure makes him feel the texture of his own tongue in a long, slow drag. He sees the white pressure-spots blooming in the skin of Cobb's neck where Arthur has grabbed him under the jaw in a clear indication of his point.

They are just looking at each other, just looking, every line of both of them rigid in a way that makes Eames glad not to be right in the middle of that contest of wills, before Arthur's shoulders wind up into a tense knot, and from this lower angle Eames can see the man's incisors, the way his teeth fit together top and bottom seamlessly before the tension breaks in him.

"Please, Dom," is all he says, and it's probably the hottest thing Eames has ever heard.

It moves fast after that, though it requires a little re-negotiation of the space involved. Eames helps brace Arthur up, letting him hook one knee over his shoulder as Cobb settles back onto the desk and lets Arthur negotiate his own slow penetration while Eames kneels on the floor and gets his hands unabashedly into the process, helping to guide, watching Arthur seat himself all the way to the hilt, and yet still somehow not be the one calling the shots.

Then he gets his mouth on Arthur and after that it's a frantic rush, Arthur bracing himself against Eames like there's only two points of support in his whole body, like the only things holding him up are Eames and Cobb. The surrender itself is smoldering, and Eames gets his hands on his own length as he sucks, as he follows the motions transmitted through Arthur's body.

Arthur never really gets loud. Though Eames might have expected that, he'd half-hoped that they could push Arthur into groaning and begging - it seemed his quiet wasn't a result so much of his restraint, but just how he was. He begs with his hands, one pushed backward against the desk to brace himself, the other in Eames' hair. He begs with his pace, his shifts of position to negotiate things deeper.

His warning is a series of breathy gasps, like the air in his lungs just won't be held in anymore, but no tone of his voice comes through as he releases, the whole of it shuddering through his muscles in a way that must set Cobb off, because he does cry out - not a name, or anything so personal or sappy, just a half growling groan.

It's only seconds later that the frantic pace Eames has set with his own dick pulls him after, and as his eyes sink closed he sees that Arthur's are slowly opening, as if Arthur might even be about to protest that they'll take care of Eames if he can just wait a second, but he can't.

Eames has waited all the seconds he's about to wait tonight, and when he comes in thick ropes over the front of the privacy panel on Arthur's desk, he thinks that's about as satisfying as the whole encounter.

Arthur wipes it up with Eames' shirt ten minutes later, then hands it over wordlessly as if he's expecting Eames to protest instead of just pull it on, with cold, damp, sex-smelling spots all through it anyway. Arthur just arches his eyebrows without further comment, a clear touche in the expression.

"It's too late for a hotel, I think." He says, re-buttoning his suspenders as if in clear challenge for anyone to argue. "But I have a fold-out bed in my couch."

"You have a _couch_?" Eames asks, trying to recall when Arthur had stopped living in posh hotel rooms.

"It came with the furnished apartment."

Well that was bound to be a little less lavishly expensive than paying weekly rates on hotel suites, but only just. Eames wonders when Arthur had begun spending enough time in proximity to Cobb to need more permanent living quarters, before he decides it doesn't matter.

Dom offers to drive them all, and it beats waiting for a taxi, and gives Cobb an excuse to be in the same place they are.

"It's more like lions than wolves, really," Eames observes breathlessly, the normal lines of reserves that keeps his internal thoughts from leaking into external observations momentarily disrupted by the utter laxity of his entire body.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Arthur says, sounding tired, like he's half on the edge of sleep as he leans against Eames' shoulder in the back seat of Dom's car.

"Nature documentaries," Eames says enigmatically, and they're all silent for the rest of the ride.

He thinks it doesn't matter much that they won't dream as they all curl onto the pull out bed in Arthur's couch, it means they won't kick each other off of it, and he's looking forward to waking up right in the middle again, right in the cozy little niche he's made for himself between alphas.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I really, really like pack dynamics. :/ Can you tell? I'm sure you can.
> 
> 2\. Yeah it's really wordy for PWP, I can't help it. I'm sorry! There really is porn in there, I promise.
> 
> 3\. Stephen King tells me to 'murder my darlings' but I am just so in love with the scene in which Eames drops his luggage on Arthur's feet and sleeps on him that I couldn't axe it. There is other stuff that I cut that I think I may use again later because I want to explore it, but really a lot of ideas converged and demanded to be written and I was trying to consolidate and that doesn't always work.
> 
> 4\. It is SO LOVELY to have a beta, for reals.
> 
> 5\. - "It's more like lions than wolves, really." Okay with wolves, only the alpha pair mate. Lions just kind of have sex with their whole pride, and also it's typical for two male heads of a pride to strengthen their bonds by having sex! Things I did not know before writing this fic, so yeah I figured I'd share. You know. So you can know too.


End file.
